Hearts
by Mimi Dear
Summary: Classic tale of Hot Date vs. Family. Just because you hate your father doesn't mean your brothers have to suffer. TemariKankuroGaara familyfic.


Temari gazed at herself in the mirror, letting out a shallow sigh and hoping to relieve some of the weight sagging in her chest. She nabbed a nearby brush and combed through her almost-dry hair, frowning at how boringly straight it was and the heavy thickness.

As she brushed her hair and blow-dried it, her mind wandered, and she noticed with dry distaste how her eyelids were drooping in boredom and lack of energy. This whole day had been such a drag. The most lovely Aunt Flo had visited her today, at the most inconvenient time possible; right at the beginning of her weeklong training intensive.

She audibly growled at the memory. Her favorite pair of track capris, ruined.

Tonight, she was preparing for a dinner with some jounin who had asked her out at the ceremony last week, where she was honored for killing a senator from some foreign country that was knocked down from the brink of success by the death of their representative. Gaara thoroughly believed the nation to be a threat; and as she was one of his personal, vitally important nin who was reserved for the most dire of jobs, the man was hers to kill.

The man she was going to dinner with tonight was neither especially handsome or ugly, held a decent rank in Gaara's government. He seemed alright; no obviously freaky quirks or anything, although a tad boring compared to the men Temari had the pleasure of dominating in the past.

She paused in applying her powder foundation to examine this.

That Neji boy had been nice. They had advanced to a very deep level of intimacy by the third date, and he did in fact have extremely soft bedsheets, but his obsession with his work was nearly frightening; and neither had the brain capacity nor the time to be devoted emotionally to one another, or even have sex regularly. It was always at weird times, at weird places, and oftentimes, in very crude, unromantic manners.

Shikamaru, her childhood fascination, was extremely tantalizing. He was so tall and lanky and utterly gorgeous by unusual manners; in the way he looked around himself and realized the meaning of things but had not the audacity to bother explaining it to anyone. He easily realized human nature; and although sometimes he believed himself to be smarter than he actually was, he was rarely cocky about it.

And Naruto. Oh, that boy was much too sweet for her. Even though he failed to avoid accidentally tripping her and thus in result snapping one of the slender heels of her stilettos, he had been so adorable. He brought her a daisy he had grown from the potted plants in his apartment, and when she stepped from the doorway when he came to pick her up, he very tenderly placed the flower behind her ear. If he would've had more flaws perhaps they could've been an "it".

Well anyway. Temari pulled at the skin beneath her eyes and carefully began applying a slender line of dark green eyeliner, and grumbled to herself for getting off-focus. This other fellow, whateverhisnamewas (she'd figure it out when he arrived), had asked her out because of her success on that stupid misson.

Why did everyone seem to think it was a big deal that she managed to kill a fat man in his own home? If she hadn't been trained against emotion towards her targets, she would've felt major remorse. The man had many photographs of his children in his mountain home where she asassinated him.

Well. Perhaps it was a big deal. Come to think of it, her profession was a painful and restricting one. Since the age of four, she had been tested and worn like a rag. Her body, although petite in her lack of heighth, was powerful; her arms were well-defined, and the tendons and muscles on her back and legs were strong as iron ropes. Her posture was impeccable, and her expressions were vastly unreadable if she wanted them to be.

By eight she had made her first kill. At nine she stabbed a boy who made fun of her undeveloping chest and literally licked his blood off the kunai as she sat on top of him. Granted, she was seventeen now, and by no means did she lick blood off kunai anymore, but the facts remained.

She was a muderer. And yet, she was praised for it. Hell, she made money for something that other people spent years in prisons for.

She snapped her compact closed and tossed it in the sequined purse she planned to take to dinner with her. Briskly, she applied light mascara, and gave herself a look in the nearby mirror.

Her dress was a fairly pretty one; a simple black halter with a spidery back and lace over the flowy tiers of fabric that fell over her thighs. Her hair was pulled back tightly and pinned in a twist that was held close to her head, and only her bangs hung loose. Her heels were spike, and the laces that held them around her ankles were soft silk ribbon.

Pleased with her appearance, she began to head downstairs.

Honestly, what was it that made her jump from man to man so easily? Could it really be like those counselors and psychiatric consults said, and be the fault of the poor father influence in her life? It was so dumb. Such a common cliche, such a stupid stereotype.

So what if her father had never bothered to be around; his work was extremely time-consuming. He was busy, and besides, she preferred the home and the posessions he provided to himself as a being personally. It's not like he was a true divine pleasure to be with, or like she really enjoyed his hypocritical nature.

She was considerably stronger than that. She wasn't weak like her mother; if a rich man with no desire than to possess a woman from the neck down approached her, she would take him down, not marry him.

Now coming around the base of the stairs, and approaching the couch where Kankuro sat in front of the television in the living room and Gaara sat reading the newspaper in the adjoining kitchen, a thought occured to her.

Perhaps she was doing them anything but justice. God knows Gaara didn't have a decent parent figure in his life; much less any resembleance of a mother. Kankuro of course had been able to spend time with beloved Mom, but she felt sure he couldn't remember.

God, those were the things she really missed; just the moments with Mom. Without her, things were so boring, so un-meaningful. There weren't any more of those "oh wow I'll never ever forget this" moments. She especially remembered one night when her mother was four months pregnant with Gaara and they played "Hearts", the card game.

Temari could hardly get the rules of the game, and Kankuro struggled with holding his cards in a fan shape as his hand kept cramping, and his mother helped him with it the whole way through, but they had such fun.

With a pang of guilt, Temari realized that Gaara never got to have that. In some demented form of grief and despair, her father had taken all the playing cards in the house and burned them, and any time one of them was caught talking about those times, Baki-sensei would get to run them through the obstacle course until they were limp as rags.

Glancing around the corner, she sighted Kankuro lounging on the couch. He was actually rogueishly handsome like his father when he wasn't decked out in makeup, and what a surprise to catch him watching "The Gilmore Girls". Again.

Gaara sat on one of the tall bar stools around the kitchen island. Every once in awhile, he would glance towards Kankuro and the TV with particular distaste. Now a full-fledged teenager, he too had only grown more and more handsome, and was taller than she now, with a mop of curly red hair and eyes as brightly green as ever. The heavy dark rims were fading, and Temari unintentionally smiled when she began to notice how human he seemed now.

With a sigh, she stooped to reach the ribbons around her ankles, and swiftly untied them. Slipping off the shoes, she tossed them into a nearby closet, along with her purse, and walked into the living room, plunking down on the couch beside Kankuro.

"Hey Gaara" she called nonchalantly over the TV, "you ever hear of a game called 'Hearts'?" 


End file.
